A Visit to the Zoo

Well, not really.  But close enough.
You know how when you go to the zoo, usually it’s the monkeys that are doing really funny stuff?  Like picking bugs off each other.  Or putting their fingers in their ears.  Or throwing poop.
Yeah, that last one is my favorite.
Here’s what I have learned.  When one of your little monkeys is old enough to actually throw poop at you (yes, throw. poop. at. you.), it is definitely time for some hard-core potty boot camp.
Sweet little Jadon, my adorable little pumpkin (laced with heavy sarcasm here) decided that I did not respond quickly enough when he yelled, “Ja-Ja poop in pants!” at me after I had tucked him in and settled meself down for a good session of Whale Wars on TV.
I actually thought I responded quite promptly, after I muttered a few things under my breath about him being the first child EVER to go to kindergarten with poop in his pants.  Yeah, that’s still a few years away, but believe me progress has been very slow in this department, slow enough to make me start fretting about how I’m going to manage to send Depends to kindergarten in an unmarked package so that he is not mercilessly mocked by his peers who happen to enjoy not pooping in their pants.
I grabbed a Pull-Up—because in my delusional state of believing the boys are semi-potty trained, I have moved from diapers to Pull-Ups—and I headed up the stairs at a blistering rate of speed.  Still not fast enough for my little angel though.
Once more I heard, “Ja-Ja poop in PANTS!”  This time it was louder and more insistent.
Well, maybe you should have thought about the uncomfortable situation you were about to put yourself in BEFORE you dropped a load in your pants, little man.  I thought this, but didn’t say it.  (Ok, maybe I said it, but in a loving and nurturing way.)
As I made it to the second step, suddenly I found myself in a storm of round, brownish hail that was raining down—inside my house.  Oh yes, my little cherub decided that it would be fun to play a game of Poop Asteroids with Mommy as she worked her way up the stairs.  At a brief break in the hailstorm of poop, I looked up to see him standing at the railing with his hand twisted at this unnatural angle, trying to dig for more ammunition from the back of his pants.
OMG—my kid was throwing poop at my head.  Seriously?  Where the heck did he get the idea that this was remotely acceptable?
After a good reprimand, during which I thoroughly sanitized his little poop-covered hands, I realized that I needed to have a conversation about good choices with my little sugar plum.  And then I realized, OMG, I am going to be one of those moms that I have previously caught myself wanting to strangle with the strap of my diaper bag as they sing-song to their kids, “Make good choices!”
I told Jadon it is NOT A GOOD CHOICE to throw poop at Mommy.  And then I mentioned that if he did it again, I would bleepity-bleep-bleep his little bleepity-bleep-bleep.  Because that’s what good mommies do.

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